


Presents and Promises

by Ladycat



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 05:54:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Of course you are.  I’m just ensuring that we don’t have to disturb Gaius on his day off.  He’d be put out with both of us.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Presents and Promises

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chopchica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chopchica/gifts).



Merlin takes the steps at a speed even horses might have trouble keeping up with. Arthur finds it odd, since whenever Arthur gives him an order, or they’re out on a hunt Merlin always seems to drag his feet, fascinated with the dust clouds that rise up around him. Usually, it earns him a frown from Gwen and a glare from Morgana – they don’t like dirt all that much, despite there being so very much of it.

Arthur just yells at him to hurry it up, already. It’s remarkably therapeutic, all that yelling.

“Ow, dammit!” Merlin curses.

Arthur tilts his chair back, ignoring the way the wood creaks. “If you fall and break your head it will be no one’s fault but your own.”

The sudden sound of a body slapping into stone and then tumbling one, two – Arthur winces, because that’s _three_ now – stairs immediately follows.

“Of course you fell. And it is your fault. You didn’t break your head, did you?” Another creak from the unfortunate chair, but Arthur has eyes only for the tumbling heap of ungainly manservant sprawled over the last three stairs. He is _not_ going to reach out and touch Merlin, to make sure that his milk-pale skin isn’t suddenly coated with dark bruises or darker blood, or that any bones are pushing the wrong way out. That’s for women and Morgana, who manages to make such actions look like kindness.

Arthur doesn’t do kindness. Not even when he has to fist his hands tightly to stop his palms from itching and his stomach is tense because Merlin still hasn’t moved.

“Are you even breathing?”

Merlin responds with a low grating sound that might be an answer.

There’s no one around. Almost everyone is outside, celebrating the first really pleasant day of summer that isn’t swallowed up with farming and tilling and all the unfortunate things one has to do just to get a simple loaf of bread made. But the crops are all planted and growing nicely, so when the morning dawned pretty and oddly cool for two weeks after midsummer, Uther declared that everybody needed a holiday and out they all went.

Except for Arthur, who stayed to ‘guard the castle’. And Merlin, to keep him company.

His father had made a bizarre face, like swallowing a stone-fruit, when Arthur announced his intentions. He hadn’t objected, though. Just… sort of _tittered_.

He’s been doing that a lot more, lately. Tittering. And looking almost _happy_.

It’s really very frightening.

It means, however, that there really is no one around them. A few odd servants probably lurked about, since they were always lurking somewhere, but no one is in the kitchens at all but him and the crumpled heap of fallen Merlin.

So Arthur gives in. He reaches out with hands that can do gentle, even if that’s a new occurrence as well, carefully skimming over sharp cheekbones and a long, pale chin, tilting Merlin’s head this way and that. “No concussion,” he concludes, and pulls Merlin upright in such a way that lets him run his hands all over the coltish body that contains such _grace_ when its in his bed, combining the impersonal body-check he’s used to giving his knights with the sort of caress he’s used to giving Merlin.

“I’m all right, you know,” Merlin says, unmoving.

Arthur’s too busy kneeling on the stone floors, checking narrow, knobby legs to care. “Of course you are. I’m just ensuring that we don’t have to disturb Gaius on his day off. He’d be put out with both of us.”

“No, he’d be put out with _me_ and fondly resigned about you, the way he always is. Arthur, you need to stop, please.”

Please. Such a simple word. Arthur thinks about it and all the ways it can sound as he runs his hands up Merlin’s inner thighs. There’s surprising heft here, muscle built by the endless walking Merlin talks about when he mentions his old village. Not enough to make him a good rider, of course, but Arthur still leans in because he loves that unexpected strength. He likes to taste it with deep, sucking kisses that make Merlin moan, loves to feel it against the backs of his own thighs, or around his hips, the way Merlin strains out from the very core of himself as he pushes and –

“Arthur,” Merlin says, and his voice trembles just a little, “we have plans.”

“We have time.”

“Do you know how hard it is to bake? Have you ever even done it before?”

Arthur isn’t listening – though he still manages a, “Yes, of course I have, when I was a boy,” – because the front of Merlin’s trousers are a lot tighter than they were a few moments ago. All he has to do is lean forward, so he does: into heat and skin so fragile it seems a crime to even touch it with his rough, callused fingers, protective layer of trousers or not. Arthur breathes out, hot and wet right over the thickest part, nose on Merlin’s covered stomach. It makes Merlin jump, gasping, but Arthur knows him, knows how he reacts, and he’s already got his arms up around Merlin’s waist, holding him steady.

“Arthur – ”

He thinks, _Are you honestly telling me you don’t want your dick sucked? Because I happen to know how much you love it and the way you make pleading, uncomfortable faces when you want it but are afraid to ask me. By the way, I really hate that you’re afraid to ask me. You should ask me for anything you want. Possibly for everything you want, because I’m a Prince and I’m probably the most likely person to be able to procure it, and I have a sneaking suspicion the only thing that stops me from handing over my whole bloody kingdom is because you want me to rule it so very much. But you should be able to ask me for sex without fear, Merlin. I want you to ask me when you want something._

He says, “Shut up, you idiot.”

Merlin doesn’t shut up. He does make wordless groans, short, sharp exhalations of sound that pool hot in Arthur’s gut. That’s an acceptable sound, so Arthur rewards him with unlaced trousers that fall into heavy folds around his knees.

“We really do need to feed you more,” he says, pressing the words into hot skin. “You’re too skinny to hold your pants up without help.” Merlin smells like perfection, musk and sex like lightning on a clear day, the promise of a storm still far off but _there_. Arthur tucks his nose against the base of his dick and unashamedly breathes him in, which also puts his mouth right against his sac, lips brushing a wet tease, which drives Merlin absolutely crazy.

“Arthur,” Merlin says, and then babbles something about being in the kitchen and people and something about being found out.

Arthur ignores it, because he doesn’t _care_. There’s a cock, half-hard and getting harder as he watches it, bobbing against his nose. It’s much more interesting. Still, Merlin is starting to sound frantic – although that could be because he’s getting his balls sucked, and really, he has a _very_ sensitive sac, practically hairless and sweet on Arthur’s tongue – so Arthur pulls back long enough to glare upward.

“Is there anyone around?”

He says this to the length of Merlin’s dick, still glaring, which has the effect of making Merlin squeak and then shake his head.

“No, there isn’t. We planned this so we would be uninterrupted for _several hours_. Has that changed?”

No, Merlin’s head and cock both say. The cock is more insistent about it, knocking gently into Arthur’s mouth and cheek and the feel of it sends bolts of heat through Arthur’s body. He has no idea why the sensation is one he enjoys, but bumping his own cheek into Merlin’s cock only confirms that _yes_ , hot, very hot and god, can Merlin just be assured already? Because if not, Arthur’s going to come in his trousers _before_ he actually starts sucking.

Which could also be hot. Humiliating, but hot.

“Then for once in your life, Merlin,” he orders, “stop arguing with me.”

Merlin makes another strangled groan, and then his hands are in Arthur’s hair, tugging him forward. Arthur goes, trying not to purr like an alley cat, sucking Merlin down with his own groan of satisfaction because this, this is what he wants. Everything else can wait until he’s done rocking on his haunches, cock trapped uncomfortably between his own thighs, while he sucks and strokes Merlin with his tongue, taking him down as far as he can just to hear the noise Merlin always makes: sort of choking, sort of laughter, sort of _extremely hot_.

Merlin doesn’t tug him again. He just strokes his face and his shoulders, fingers sometimes knotting into a tight grip that always reverberates through Arthur pleasantly. He is noisy, gasps and groans and whimpering little puppy sounds worth striving for.

Arthur loves how open Merlin is about this: probably the only time Merlin’s truly open with him. Here, there’s no prince or servant-slash-warlock-in-disguise. It’s just two men, Arthur’s hands hot and tight around Merlin’s hips, tugging him forward to set the pace he most enjoys, Merlin’s cock filling his mouth, stretching it, rough against the back of his throat and he loves it. Loves the taste of cock, the eager way Merlin won’t thrust until he’s assured of his welcome – so different from when Merlin turns him over and slicks him up, pushing in without even a first glance for acceptance, let alone a second – and even then it’s almost stuttering, like he can’t believe this is really happening.

Looking upward, Arthur takes in eyes that flash gold, gold, gold, like the treasury his father’s advisors covet, and he sucks harder, frantic as he bobs back and forth, because he wants: bitter and salt like copper on the tongue, life surging into him because it’s _his_. Just like Merlin is his, just like he is Merlin’s.

Merlin chokes out something that might be _Arthur_ or might be _love_ or it might be something else beside. Whatever the word is, Arthur feels it sliding along his skin, sinking until it wraps around his cock and he’s pressing forward, taking Merlin as deeply as he can and swallowing, swallowing, even as his own cock lifts against tight trousers and spurts warm relief seconds before Merlin fills his mouth.

Arthur concentrates long enough to pull free with an obscene slurp and pop – it makes Merlin’s cock jerk, every time – and ease Merlin down onto the floor with him, allowing his groin to be groped and Merlin to make a pleased rumbling sound, before they both flop back and not move for a while.

“My arse is cold.”

Not a very long while, then. 

Arthur waves a negligent hand. “So pull your trousers up.”

“I can’t. My arms don’t reach that far.”

“Yes, that’s what _bending_ is for.”

Merlin rolls his head slowly, like it’s a great effort and should be appreciated, enough that he can glare. “You expect me to be able to bend after that?”

“I expect you to be able to _cook_ after that, and I assume bending, like standing upright, is involved. I was lying when I said I’ve baked before. Mostly I just licked the spoon of whatever Cook was making.”

Merlin’s sigh says this is not an unexpected development. “All right. We’ve wasted enough time – ”

Wasted, really? Arthur shifts his hips in a move guaranteed to make Merlin stop speaking to stare like the delightful idiot he is, and, when he knows Merlin is watching, slowly, sensually licks his lips.

Merlin is often utterly predictable, which Arthur will never say, because he enjoys the way Merlin devours his mouth with hungry kisses and sweet ones and the kind of slow, summer kisses that speak of endless blue sky and a sense of rightness Arthur loves.

They’re both kiss-swollen and breathless when Merlin finally pulls back, grinning at each other. “I don’t suppose she’ll take some sort of a royal proclamation, happy birthday from the Prince and all that?”

“But she likes cookies,” Arthur says, pouting a little. “We said we’d make her cookies.”

There’s a hand sliding along his hip, though, and the stones aren’t _that_ cold or hard as Arthur contemplates rolling over right here. Especially when Merlin pushes, just a little, and maybe that is a question. Arthur doesn’t have to immediately roll, belly down and already pushing his arse back. He’s strong, stronger that Merlin is physically, and if he wanted he could have Merlin pinned and hogtied in less than a blink.

But he doesn’t want, he wants _Merlin_ , so he goes without hesitation. There’s the noise sound of sucking, loud and shockingly arousing, before wet fingers scrabble at his trousers, yanking them away so Merlin can push those went fingers inside, warm and strong and thick and if Arthur makes the same whimpering sound Merlin does, well. He’s not at all ashamed of it.

“We’ll get Cook to make her cookies,” Merlin says breathlessly.

He’s big, thicker than Arthur is, and it always feels like he’s being split open when Merlin does this. Like the part of him that the others see, the part that’s the Prince, the hope of Camelot, just falls away, broken off like a walnut’s dark shell until there’s nothing but him, but _Arthur_ , panting as pleasure swallows him up whole, as Merlin starts rocking into him, warm and steady, a hand already around his sticky cock, just holding it, while Merlin whispers secrets into his neck and back, tracing the words with his mouth over and over until they turn into kisses that have a different kind of secret inside of them.

Arthur braces his hands and pushes back. “Good plan,” he gasps. “Delegation.”

“Shut up, Arthur,” Merlin says, punctuating it with a thrust that makes Arthur shout and try to keep his head from lifting off his shoulders. “We might have to sing to her, or something.”

“Later, later, will you just fuck me already?”

Merlin makes the sort of groaning laughter sound again, and there’s no more talk of presents or proclamations of birth, just the sound of skin slapping together and harsh, panting breaths that almost form words no matter how badly they try to keep quiet.

And when Arthur comes hard enough that all he can see is gold, even with Merlin behind him, gasping into his neck and saying, “Arthur, Arthur,” like it’s something precious, when he’s deliciously sore and satisfied even if he has to be quick to roll them both out of the mess he’s made – at least stone is easy to clean; Merlin should know how – he thinks that maybe they should just _tell_ her why her birthday present isn’t hand-made the way they wanted.

After all, she’d probably get more of a kick out of hearing why.


End file.
